The Valley of Silent Men eBook

Already he was sure that he knew how Kedsty had died.
The picture of the tragedy had pieced itself together
in his mind, bit by bit. While he slept, Marette
and a man were down in the big room with the Inspector
of Police. The climax had come, and Kedsty was
struck a blow—­in some unaccountable way—­with
his own gun. Then, just as Kedsty was recovering
sufficiently from the shock of the blow to fight,
Marette’s companion had killed him. Horrified,
dazed by what had already happened, perhaps unconscious,
she had been powerless to prevent the use of a tress
of her hair in the murderer’s final work.
Kent, in this picture, eliminated the boot-laces
and the curtain cords. He knew that the unusual
and the least expected happened frequently in crime.
And Marette’s long hair was flowing loose about
her. To use it had simply been the first inspiration
of the murderer. And Kent believed, as he waited
for her answer now, that Marette would tell him this.

And as he waited, he felt her fingers tighten in his
hand.

“Tell me, Gray Goose—­what happened?”

“I—­don’t—­know—­Jeems—­”

His eyes went to her suddenly from the fire, as if
he was not quite sure he had heard what she had said.
She did not move her head, but continued to gaze unseeingly
into the flames. Inside his palm her fingers
worked to his thumb and held it tightly again, as
they had clung to it when she was frightened by the
thunder and lightning.

“I don’t know what happened, Jeems.”

This time he did not feel the clinging thrill of her
little fingers and soft palm. Deep within him
he experienced something that was like a sudden and
unexpected blow. He was ready to fight for her
until his last breath was gone. He was ready to
believe anything she told him—­anything
except this impossible thing which she had just spoken.
For she did know what had happened in Kedsty’s
room. She knew—­unless—­

Suddenly his heart leaped with joyous hope. “You
mean—­you were unconscious?” he cried
in a low voice that trembled with his eagerness.
“You fainted—­and it happened then?”

She shook her head. “No. I was asleep
in my room. I didn’t intend to sleep, but—­I
did. Something awakened me. I thought I had
been dreaming. But something kept pulling me,
pulling me downstairs. And when I went, I found
Kedsty like that. He was dead. I was paralyzed,
standing there, when you came.”

She drew her, hand away from him, gently, but significantly.
“I know you can’t believe me, Jeems.
It is impossible for you to believe me.”

“And you don’t want me to believe you,
Marette.”

“Yes—­I do. You must believe
me.”

“But the tress of hair—­your hair—­round
Kedsty’s neck—­”

He stopped. His words, spoken gently as they
were, seemed brutal to him. Yet he could not
see that they affected her. She did not flinch.
He saw no tremor of horror. Steadily she continued
to look into the fire. And his brain grew confused.
Never in all his experience had he seen such absolute
and unaffected self-control. And somehow, it
chilled him. It chilled him even as he wanted
to reach out and gather her close in his arms, and
pour his love into her ears, entreating her to tell
him everything, to keep nothing back from him that
might help in the fight he was going to make.